


leave a little to the imagination

by r1ker



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6948277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker





	leave a little to the imagination

Holland sees it entirely on accident. Swear to God, what he's seeing right now had no prior investigation or curiosity.

 

Really, he hadn't at all intended on walking into Jackson's adjoining hotel room and seeing him _butt fucking naked_.

 

Okay, maybe he knew better. Only fair for Jackson to be dressing early in the morning, right before they were due to start another case. Holland had been doing the same ten minutes ago so maybe it'd been best not to charge towards Jackson's room with one shoe in one hand and a sock in the other, seeing whether or not he was ready to go. Still that doesn't stop him from ogling a little longer than curiosity would allow. He's met with a glorious sight.

 

Jackson is _solid_ from his head to his toes. That's the first thing to make Holland's mouth run dry is the way Jackson's body has no room for give, because it is entirely consumed by muscle and fat where it counts. His back arches as he bends down, letting the muscles of his back and arms ripple as the shirt he was previously wearing tumbles over his head and onto the floor.

 

Following that are his boxers. There are two dimples just above the small of Jackson's back, deepening as he climbs out of his undergarments. And speaking of what lies beneath those Holland's not shocked at all that Jackson's fucking _hung_. Where his legs are angled apart shows that the length isn't stopping past where it should for an average man and Holland is full on rubbernecking.

 

He has never been so close to yelling in his life.

 

Blessing gods he had no clue of he revels in the solidarity of Jackson's thighs, his calves and his ass, and the curve of a perfectly tapered waist. They're not at all hardened by muscle, overly defined to the point of being unsightly, but they're just enough cushioned by weight to leave a little to the imagination as to their potential. Holland knows that last part better than perhaps anyone else – he'd been around those ankles.

 

Jackson isn't too tan but he's not pasty at all. Beneath the hair on his chest and where his spine dips is the tone of a man appreciative of the time he got in the sun but one that knew its limits when it came to unsightly blemishes brought on by too much exposure. Holland smirks to himself when he zooms in on what looks to be clusters of freckles around the nape of Jackson's neck. In some way that adds to Jackson's charm, along with the spots of birthmarks near where his arms fold loosely back against his sides.

 

High on Jackson's back is a scar from a bad knife fight early in his career, just between both shoulder blades but nothing more than a cosmetic issue. The big thing disturbing the perfection, the one Holland's eye drifts to almost instantly, is the gunshot wound on Jackson's arm. It's shiny and pink, still healing even though the incident was well over a year ago. Briefly Holland's heart pulls imagining what was like taking one in the arm for a complete stranger out of an admirable belief in what was right.

 

It looks deep enough to have required more than one stitch, that's for sure. Jackson himself can remember passing out from the pain with his head going so light that it was like he'd gone to fly in the air the second the bullet entered him. He'd awoken in the hospital with the first two thirds of his arm wrapped in gauze and padding, blood still seeping through it.

 

Once he could put on a shirt without having to grab onto a countertop to keep from keeling over from the spiral of pain brought on by shredded muscle and tissue pulling against one another, he'd went out and got tattoos. None of them worked to cover up the wound itself but were just showy enough to distract from the gouge left behind. They were a joy to look at when he found himself without a shirt on. After he got past the peeling phase (not the cutest and you really did have to take care wearing sleeveless shirts around others who thought you might have an infectious disease) of course.

 

Of course there was the one on his forearm (any young man with an inkling of rebellion in his blood made sure to budget that one into his first adult paycheck). Nothing really, part stick-and-poke and part needle, it was a nonsensical thing of vines doing their best to strangle a weakened bird. Even from a distance Holland can see the eyes of the bird, solid in that they are nothing but aggregated jabs of a roughened needle against Jackson's skin.

 

His favorite was just along his ribs (stung like a bitch but was worth the $75). A large bloom of flowers, something he'd seen years earlier during a sporadic vacation taken high in the hills of northern Tennessee, growing it seemed alongside his skin. They were brilliantly colored through countless coloring sessions. Jackson had been more than willing to shell out the money for it.

 

He was still so shaken up by it all that having a needle brought to his skin bearing vivacious color was nothing at all. Someone in his past had equated it once to running your flesh along a nail sticking out from a wall and in that chair he felt the comparison was rather accurate. In fact, it was actually a pretty pleasant experience. The shop and artist were well kept and well known for great pieces. He'd been warned of the pain brought on by a tattoo to the chest but comparing it to all that had been done to him in months past it was the least of his concern.

 

Holland tells himself to stop staring, stop it, _stop looking_. In that minute he stops denying himself things he'd told himself for years he never had an interest in. But Jackson seems more live here, now flitting about his hotel room with his back still turned as he readies himself for their job, than Holland's ever seen him. Speaking of that, isn't it high time to put some clothes on? Does Jackson go about his morning in repose like this all the time?

 

Holland wants the answer to this question immediately. So, to let himself be known, he clears his throat. Jackson turns around slowly. Holland can feel his heart slamming in his chest when Jackson makes eye contact with him and soon turning around to leave has never felt so tempting. Nothing in the way Jackson's eyebrows raise implies otherwise.

 

"You going to say anything?"

 

His mouth weighs down open, impossibly heavy, eyes like saucers in the wake of Jackson's unashamed display of his body. "No, no, I…" Holland's back hits the wall, as he turns around, stunned by his reverie. Face burning hot and blood boiling at close to the same temperature he retreats back into his own room.

 

It's not a far journey but once he's there he slams the door behind himself. He should finish getting dressed, comb his drying hair, but from seeing Jackson like that he is astounded when he finds he's hard. Looking down he lets his body slide down against the closed door, knees angling outward as soon as he's seated on the carpet. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells him it's mid-morning, dangerously close to when he and Jackson ought to be hitting the road.

 

This needs to be tended to first.

 

His duffel bag isn't far out of reach. He digs through its contents, slinging away clothes and ties to find a red case. Within it is something he'd completely avoided buying until Jackson Healy had become a reality – weighty and ridged in places is a rubber dildo, the first and only one he'll ever buy. Even getting ahold of it was a challenge; he'd gone into the toyshop with cheeks absolutely burning with shame. A few of the shop attendants there on the day he'd gone in a few months ago, had been more than willing to help him find "the one," was how they'd put it.

 

And most certainly, it had been. More often than not he'd stayed up long past the time allowing him to get eight full hours of rest had passed. It was awkward at first given his inexperience with such a concept, not knowing the full capacity of his body to flex and receive it, but once he had the algorithm down as to how to angle it, cant his legs, make sure there was plenty of lube on there to prevent chafing, he was gone.

 

It also didn't help at all thinking about things to bring him off. Run of the mill stuff at first, Rita Hayworth even once, but once he and Jackson teamed up, just thinking of Jackson's hands cupping his ass to spread him open make his teeth tear into his pillow. Now it's even worse than those first preliminary thoughts. He's got real kodachrome images with which to elongate the pleasure.

 

Better to get started now than later.

 

Figuring out he can do this in less time than it takes for Jackson to get dressed he rises with the dildo and its accompanying bottle of lube in his hands. With a sigh and a slight bounce to his step he resettles high up against his bed, knees settling into the countless pillows housekeeping had left behind for him on the cleaning rounds that morning.

 

He keeps a forearm braced on the elaborate headboard and uses the other free hand to work himself open with lubed fingers. When he was a newbie to it all just the tips of his fingers pressing against his hole, his prostate made him shake hard enough to wring the first of many orgasms out. Here it's different, the prodding and the pressure not nearly enough to stoke the fire simmering low in his belly. Quick work is made of the prep and he puts more lube into the palm of his hand, dragging it up and down the base and shaft of the dildo before pressing the tip of it to his hole.

 

Just that alone, the slight and rugged contact of it against him, makes a shudder so hard it causes him to tremble from head to toe. Biting down on his forearm he works it all the way in with a hand still shaking from the previous tease. He thrusts into the air once it's all the way in, cockhead pressing against the cool glass of the small mirror within the headboard. That sensation about makes him fall off balance, lose his posture, maybe let out a yelp if his teeth lost grip of his arm. But he regains himself. And with this restoration of concentration he begins to thrust the dildo in and out of his ass.

 

His mind runs rampant through it all. Taking cues from Jackson's demeanor he quickly works up a scenario as to what it'd be like to have Jackson fucking him other than the $40 rod of plastic working fluidly in and out of him. Jackson would start out gentle, ever the sir in bed, until he would get fed up with the polite act and fuck Holland until he'd be limping. The thrusts pick up in pace and depth, working shallow and quick at first until he's better acclimated to the feel.

 

Soon he's panting, each anguished breath several steps away from being a moan as his fingers brush against his ass, coming close. Beneath him his own precome drips onto the pillowcases and he makes a brief, mental note to leave one clean for later ( _you'll have to sleep this off once you're busy getting off to your naked partner_ ). He tastes blood dripping into his mouth soon and he releases his arm, seeing weals made by his even bite. Now with this hand free he reaches down and jerks himself off to the unrelenting rhythm of the dildo fucking him.

 

The last thing to send him off, cause him to stagger even closer to the headboard, is the potentiality of Jackson losing his cool and coming completely unabated inside him. Past the starbursts from his climax he can see Jackson stunned from a lack of composure, eyes wide in shock from the feeling and from knowing Holland's presence was the one that did it.

 

Holland cries out when he's through coming, hand still working behind him to drag out the last of the shocks from his orgasm. Blinking slowly it's clear that the whole ordeal's made his eyes water, and in a passing thought he swipes them away with the back of his hand. The dildo gets pulled out and tossed to the side. He gently lowers himself back down onto the bed and shivers again at the press of cool sheets against his fevered back.

 

After a few seconds of recollection a knock sounds at the door. Clearing his throat he asks the one calling for him, "Yeah?"

 

"We gotta go, come on," Jackson beckons, voice muffled through the door. Here Holland notices something difference by his tone, the way his voice is pitched. It's deeper than it had been in that brief exchange in the bedroom. Holland groans and rolls off of the bed, grabbing a spare towel to swipe through the mess on his stomach before pulling on a fresh set of clothes which, on account of what's just happened, will have to tide him over until tomorrow. Or until when he can sneak and steal some of Jackson's.


End file.
